All Chapters of Spicy Hot : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

LéonI speak to no one. I simply walk, at a steady pace, toward the main staircase. But I hear, I see everything. The clerk near the reception desk who drops a sheet of paper. The secretary whose coffee cup remains suspended halfway to her lips. The furtive, then insistent, look from Morel, my deputy, as he sizes her up from head to toe with poorly concealed disbelief.It's not her presence that strikes them. It's mine. With her. I have never arrived with anyone. I am a ghost who walks these corridors, a verdict embodied behind a closed door. The idea that I might have a companion, a being at my side, is unthinkable. And this being… a woman, young, beautiful despite the pallor and shadows, carrying upon her an indefinable mark of turmoil, of injury.I don't offer her my hand. I don't touch her. But my mere tolerance of her presence one meter away from me is a cataclysm. I sense them searching for clues. A look of intimacy? A tender word? Nothing. Just this physical proximity, this bub

CéliaThe office air has become a thickness, a suffocating soup where every dust particle in the sunbeam seems weighted down by his gaze. I pretend to read. The words dance, mix together, refuse to form meaning. All my skin is a sensor strained toward him, on the other side of those three meters that could be a continent or a razor's edge.I feel his gaze. Always. It's a physical weight. An invisible hand resting on my neck, on my shoulders, following the curve of my spine. When I turn a page, I know he watches the movement of my fingers. When I sigh, captivated despite myself by a stranger's distress in a letter, I feel his attention tighten, as if seeking the source of my emotion to eradicate it.I'm an animal in a vivarium. And he, the cold scientist behind the glass. Except the glass is invisible, and the scientist… his coldness is cracking. I've seen it. In flashes. In the tension of his jaw when Morel entered. In the way his fingers went white gripping his pen earlier, when laug

 CéliaThe silence has solidified into a heavy block, harder than the wood of the desk under my fingers. I stare at the curve of his neck, there, on the other side of the room. He is bent over a file, motionless. A tin soldier after the battle. My breath still pounds against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage of bruised flesh.My lips.I press them with my fingers. A painful tingling, a living memory. They retain the imprint of his lips, a raw signature carved into my skin. It's there. Like a brand burned in. I am marked."Mademoiselle…"His voice cuts through me like a cold blade. It's hoarse, strangled, but pulled back under control. An order."Those letters. Finish them by four o'clock."He hasn't looked up. He speaks to his file. To the space between us, now populated with ghosts and lightning. I look at the pile. The white envelopes are tombstones. Every word to be typed will be a lie. How can I transcribe con

 LéonThe water lost its warmth long ago, becoming tepid, then almost cool, without me moving. She is still on me, her weight become a soft thing, an anesthetic against the inner turmoil. Her breath is steady against my neck. Has she fallen asleep? Fainted from pleasure and fatigue? I absently stroke the spinal column that undulates beneath her smooth skin, down to the curve of her buttocks. She shudders, an infinitesimal movement, proof that she is still here, in limbo.Physical satiety is a heavy cloak. But underneath, the restlessness persists. A need for... continued possession. For demonstration. I took her in the violence of the water, but now, I want something else. I want to cherish her like spoils. To treat her like a precious thing I have conquered and intend to savor with perverse slowness.— Célia.I murmur her name against her temple. She grunts, a sound of animal protest.— We need to get out.

 CéliaThe robe is now wide open on me, held only by my position and his. The fire caresses my bare skin. His fingers, free between bites, trace paths on my sternum, around a breast without ever touching it directly, making it tremble with anticipation.— The strawberries, he says finally, his voice hoarse with contained desire.He takes a perfect red strawberry, dips it lightly in the bowl of fresh cream. He brings it to my mouth. I bite. The fruit is sweet, tart, the cream rich. Juice runs down my chin.He growls, a sound of deep satisfaction. He doesn't wipe it with the napkin. He leans in and licks it, slowly, moving from my chin up to the corner of my lips. His tongue is warm, rough, deliberate. I arch against him, an involuntary movement that presses my back against his hard chest. I feel his arousal through both layers of fabric.— You've gotten it everywhere, he lies again.His hand finally abandons all pr